[vaughne]

PRIMARY TARGET – KOKURA, Japan By
Millard E. Hileman - On August 6th, 1945, a lonely B-29 lazily approached the city of Hiroshima, unchallenged by an impotent Japanese air force and almost unnoticed by the inhabitants of the city. The bomb bay opened, and a tiny speck separated from the silver belly of the monster. As the speck increased to the size of an orange, a parachute opened. It descended to an altitude of 1,500 feet and then it was as if a giant flash bulb had gone off. A blinding flash, ranging from a flue-white to a deep orange color, had in an instant released all of the fantastic forces of an earthquake, hurricane, and flood combined in one terrible package. In that instant, a city of 350,000 had been sixty percent destroyed. 30,000 people had completely disappeared; thousands lay mutilated and hopelessly wounded. The exact toll would never be known. With that blinding flash, the nuclear age had descended on mankind. On that day, a city died, with the hope that civilization might live. Three days later an even more powerful bomb was dropped on the city of Nagasaki, on Kyushu Island. The result: 30,000 lives lost, and the complete destruction of 18,000 buildings. It could have been much worse. This second effort was hampered by adverse weather conditions. In desperation, Nagasaki had been chosen as the alternate target, and even then, the target was missed by five miles. Amidst all this death and destruction, the people of Kokura went about their business in the same peaceful, quiet manner that had been their custom even before the start of the World
War. Kokura, a beautiful, quiet , residential city of about 150,000 people lay nestled in the low, rolling coastal hills on the northern part of Kyushu Island. In distance, it lay about
sixty airline miles south of Hiroshima, and about the same distance north of Nagasaki. For some 1,200 American and Dutch prisoners of war, in the prison camp located on the outskirts of Kokura, the morning of August 9th, 1945, was just about like any other morning during the past year. It was 5:am, and already the Japanese guards were running through the barracks, chattering and waving bamboo
sticks, waking the men as they had almost every morning since that hot august day a little over a year ago. That was the day the
Japanese freighter, "Nishi Maru", had quietly slipped into Moji and disgorged her human cargo of 1,500 American prisoners of war who had made the trip up from Manila as "Guests" of the suns of Nippon. On that day, all aboard were quickly unloaded, forced to wait for three hours in the hot sun, and then were divided into two groups. The first group was marched to the railroad depot, where they boarded cars for parts unknown. The second group, of which I happened to be an unwilling member, was left
"sweating it out" under the relentless rays of the hot August sun for another two hours. Finally, we were herded from the port area and ordered to board several waiting streetcars. Once under way, a not unfriendly guard informed us that we were to get off at a town called Kokura. About an hour, and eighteen miles later, the noise, smelly cars ground to a stop, and we were pushed from the doorway. We were quickly lined up, and the never-ending ritual of roll call took place. Roll calls had always been extremely interesting, and Americans believed them to be a gimmick invented by the Japanese to instigate legalized confusion among the POWs. The first order of business after lining up was to count off. The counting, of course, had to be done in Japanese. As no man ever stood in the same place twice, his number was never the same. One slip in counting gave the guard in charge the right to punish the offender, by any means that his Oriental mind could devise at the moment, such as a knee to the groin, the butt of a rifle to the Adam's Apple, a resounding thumb under the nose, by snapping his finger off his thumb, and numerous other childish pranks, originated only to humiliate an American male by someone half his size. We always stayed very much alert during the counting off ceremony. We were immediately marched to a stockade, complete with barbed wire and guard towers. As we were approaching this structure, two large gates swung open, and we had our first look at Camp # 3, which was to be our home until the war's end. We were immediately marched to a stockade, complete with barbed wire and guard towers. The trip from Moji to Kokura had followed the coastline, and while the crowded cars had somewhat hampered our view, we were thrilled by the natural beauty of the landscape. All along the coast of Kyushu, the land rose from the sea in gentle contours, unmarked by freeways and outdoor advertising, and remains as green as the hills of Erin. As the streetcars entered the outskirts of Kokura, we noticed that it was mostly residential, and very delightfully situated among the low terraced hills that are so characteristic of Kyushu Island. Like most Japanese cities in 1944, the war had not actually reached Kokura. Isolated air raids had taken place in some areas, more for psychological reasons than anything else, such as Doolittle's Raid on Tokyo in 1942. As yet the Americans had not been able to position themselves in such a way that they could offer a concentrated barrage on the heart of Japanese heavy industry. Yomato, a sister city of Kokura, and an industrial giant of 250,000 people had been victimized by such an attack only two months previous. However little damage had been done, either materially or psychologically, and business went on as usual. The Japanese were refusing to believe that the Holy Empire would be violated. Yomato was the heart of Japanese heavy industry on Kyushu, and the home of the tremendous government-owned Yomato Steel Works, Sugar and Oil refineries, chemical works, paper and flour mills, glass factories and various types of metal industries completed the massive industrial complex. But for a low range of coastal hills, the two cities might have been one. Only only a few miles separated them geographically, but by the standards of culture, atmosphere and the daily humdrum tensions of industry, they were separated by centuries. The Yomato Steel Works would be our source of employment for the ensuing year. We would spend our working hours in Yomato, retreating at nightfall to the serene, pleasant atmosphere of Kokura and nineteenth century Japan. Each day we traveled to the mill area aboard a small work
train that rattled along at about ten miles per hour. A short distance from Kokura, the train entered a tunnel approximately one half mile in length, and then emerged abruptly into the confines of the vast industrial arena. The morning of August 9th, 1945, dawned hot and humid. Even though the sky was free of clouds, the smell and feel of rain was in the air. As we ate our breakfast of rice and tea, guards circulated nervously among us, shouting and jabbing with sticks, and encouraging us to hurry. They had seemed unduly disturbed the last two days. This was somewhat puzzling and had caused us no end of anxiety. They appeared to be extremely emotional and an air raid alarm or the sound of approaching aircraft only increased the horror in their eyes. As we finished our breakfast and started lining up for work, everyone, somehow sensed that this day would be different, as if the strains and tensions that had been building up over the last three years would suddenly be released. While lining up, occasional glances were cast skyward, possible with the hope of catching a glimpse of an American plane, but mostly in anticipation of clouds that would open up and cast blessed coolness in the form of rain on the tired, haggard figures that had once been men of a proud fighting force. The past year had been a lucky one for the men in “Camp # 3”. Even though things had been rough at times, our good fortunes had been appreciated. Mostly, we thought that it had been a lucky camp, just as Kokura had been a lucky city. No bombs had fallen in our immediate area, yet we had been under constant alert for three months. There had been a minimum of atrocities. Food had not been plentiful, but it had been enough to keep body and soul together. The work was hard and certainly not suited to our skills, the guards were mean, and almost everyday someone was beaten up, but as of yet no one had been killed in camp or on the job. Yes, we had been very lucky. We had discussed it many times, wondering if we would always be lucky, even in the end. The End? What would be the End? What would it bring? The Japanese had been talking a lot about the possibility of an invasion by American troops. Then what? The Japanese guards had told us, "When the Americans come, you will die. You will be placed on the beaches to die by the shells of your own
troops". "COUNT OFF"! The command had caught everyone unaware. Being preoccupied as we were with thoughts of weather, what the future had in store, and being thankful for our good fortunes of the previous year, we had forgotten to pre-count our positions. Strangely, however, the guards this morning seemed oblivious of our mistakes.
Continued -